Troublemakers #1 (9781442440319)

by Burns, T. R.

  “. . . the Fire Starters . . . the Athletes . . .”

  A flickering flame. A winged sneaker.

  “. . . and last but not least, the Sniper Squad!”

  And a hand grenade.

  “Your tutors are older Troublemakers from your group. They’ve been chosen for you based on your individual talents, and they will help you grow those talents through one-on-one lessons and personalized feedback.” Annika pauses. “Are we ready?”

  The crowd cheers as another light shoots up from below, illuminating a circle of clear, high-backed chairs in the center of the stage, just beneath the ball. As we watch, one familiar face, then another and another, appears on the round screen.

  “Austin Baker!” Annika declares. “Carla Simmons! Sam Fitzgerald! Priscilla Todd! Lucas Horn! Please join us onstage!”

  A camera focuses on several Troublemakers I recognize from classes. It catches their chins dropping, smiles forming, and excitement growing as they launch out of their seats, and projects every reaction on-screen for the entire pavilion to see. They land in the clear chairs, and the camera takes turns zeroing in on each of their faces. Their images rotate above them, framed by their names, ages, and hometowns in big white letters.

  The Troublemaker performers gather around my classmates. Austin, Carla, Sam, Priscilla, and Lucas, still seated in a circle, begin to spin slowly. The performers look straight ahead, their expressions blank. The audience grows quiet. I don’t know these kids personally, but I’m nervous for them anyway, and wipe my damp forehead with my sleeve.

  Austin’s chair stops in front of the belcher. The camera focuses on the back of the chair as the glowing image of a human torso appears.

  “Gas Attendant!” Annika exclaims to whoops and whistles. “Brilliant!”

  The belching Troublemaker grins. Pats Austin on the back. Leads him to a table and presents him with a silver ski parka. On the jacket’s sleeve is a patch with the Kilter Academy logo and the same torso image displayed on the round screen.

  Annika matches each of the other kids with an older Trouble-maker. The first-year Troublemakers have the same talents as their individual tutors, but no two first-years have the exact same skill. Together, they all form the Biohazard group.

  Next, Annika calls out five new names, one of which I recognize right away.

  “Abraham Hansen!”

  Abe jumps out of his seat and runs onstage. During his turn, the spinning, clear throne stops in front of the Troublemaker painter. The easel-and-skull logo appears on the ball.

  “Aerosol Assaulter!” Annika sings. “Welcome to Les Artistes!”

  On and on it goes. Gabby stops in front of the strange staring girl. Elinor stops in front of the guy whose performance was convincing us he was a blind psychic before confessing he was neither. Our class is fairly evenly divided, with about five first-years joining each group. Every pairing is met with cheers and screams, the loudest of which comes from the pavilion section with the most members of the particular group just announced.

  Now, Annika’s introduction was pretty clear, so on some level, I get what’s happening. But all the noise and flashing lights and other hoopla must be more distracting than I realized, because for some reason, I don’t process what this really means until it’s Lemon’s turn . . . and the chair stops in front of the kid who started fires around other Troublemakers.

  “Flame Thrower!”

  Lemon’s paired with the fire starter.

  And I’m about to be exposed to the entire school.

  “Seamus Hinkle!” Annika shouts.

  My stomach drops. My eyes lock on those opened wide on the round overhead screen, register the words over and under the bright red face.

  SEAMUS HINKLE

  12 YEARS OLD

  CLOUDVIEW, NEW YORK

  I hold my breath, listen for other names . . . but there aren’t any.

  “Uh-oh!” Annika exclaims. “I think someone’s shy! Let’s give our newest new student a warm Kilter welcome!”

  I want to run. Hide. Or, better yet, die—just like I should’ve my first night here. Taking my secret to the grave would be a million times better than broadcasting it in front of hundreds of kids.

  The crowd claps and calls my name. My feet, ignoring screaming protests from my brain, lead me onstage and to a clear, high-backed chair. The others remain empty. I look down as I start spinning, dreading the shocked gasps and looks that will soon fill the pavilion. I wonder which Troublemaker the chair will stop before, since unless that spotlight bulb was out and we missed it, no one died during the performance.

  The spinning slows. My eyes squeeze shut. Annika starts to say the terrible, awful word I still can’t believe describes me.

  “M . . . arksman!”

  My heart stops.

  Marksman.

  Not murderer.

  “Welcome to the Sniper Squad!” Annika adds.

  The pavilion erupts. My eyelids snap up. The archer who hit the swinging bull’s-eye from a hundred feet away stands before me.

  “Seamus Hinkle,” he says with a grin. “I think we’re going to make some major trouble together.”

  Chapter 9

  DEMERITS: 100

  GOLD STARS: 45

  My tutor’s name is Ike, and he doesn’t waste any time getting started. He leads me offstage as soon as the spotlight shifts from us to Annika, and we hurry outside.

  “Are you sure the ceremony’s over?” I ask, jogging to keep up. “Shouldn’t we hang around to make sure we don’t miss anything?”

  “And forfeit a head start? I don’t think so.”

  Ike veers left, toward a small parking lot—and a golf cart. He hops in and pats the front seat for me to join him. I stop a few feet before the cart and glance over my shoulder. A fireworks display lights up the gray, early-morning sky over the Performance Pavilion.

  “What are you afraid of?” he asks.

  That Annika only said “marksman” instead of “murderer” to keep from terrifying the audience. That Ike wears a black parka with a blank sleeve patch, while all the other tutors wear silver parkas with distinct emblems. That he’s used his bows and arrows to kill before, and that he’s about to do so again. That if I leave with him, there won’t be any witnesses to confirm what happened and make sure Mom and Dad get the right story.

  “Ever ridden in a golf cart before?”

  I turn back. “Once. With my dad at the Cloudview Putt ’n’ Play.”

  “Did you go from zero to sixty in eight point two seconds?”

  “We didn’t go from zero to six in ten minutes.”

  Ike smiles. Tilts his head toward the empty seat.

  As fireworks boom behind us, I remind myself that my K-Pak’s in my backpack. If necessary, I can shoot Lemon or Annika a quick note letting them know what’s about to happen. And then I climb into the cart.

  Speed isn’t the only difference between this cart and the one I rode in with Dad. This cart has a curved, clear roof. The seats are soft white leather. The dashboard is made of wood so polished I can see my lips tremble the way they do when I’m scared but trying to hide it. A clear seat belt automatically slides around my waist and across my chest. Once I’m buckled, a digital 3-D map forms over the dash. I recognize the Kanteen and classroom building before Ike touches one edge of the map. It shifts and zooms in on an empty field rimmed in trees. Ike touches the field, spins it around, and flicks the map once more.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Go!”

  I’m pretty sure tires leave pavement, though I’m holding on too tightly to lean down and look. The cart zooms from the parking lot, zigzags around trees and buildings. I try to smile at Ike, to show him traveling at warp speed is cool with me, but the force pushes my head and torso back into the leather seat.

  Then, as quickly as it took off, the golf cart stops. We’re at the edge of the field we just saw on the map. But unlike its digital image, the field’s not empty. Lined up fr
om one end to the other are twenty or so figures wearing skirts and blouses, khakis and sweaters. At first I think they’re real people, but as we step out of the cart and walk toward them, I realize they’re mannequins. Only where their plastic heads should be, red apples sit instead.

  I stop short. Ike turns around.

  “I thought we’d start closer,” he says with a shrug. “But you can shoot from there if you want.”

  I shake my head, step back. “I can’t shoot.”

  “Think of it more as practicing aim and focus. That’s ninety-nine percent of what archery is, after all.” He follows my wide-eyed stare to the apple-topped mannequins. “I know you’re used to produce being the weapon and not the target, but Annika said you’d mastered that skill and were ready for something more serious. Which, by the way, is also more fun.”

  I look at him. “Annika told you to bring me here?”

  “No.”

  I release a small sigh of relief. Of course she didn’t. She’s too nice to recommend something like this.

  “She told me to let you loose in the Kilter garden. But I thought it was better to start in an open space and minimize casualties.”

  My heart drops. He turns on one heel and keeps walking. I look around for an escape, but we’re in the middle of nowhere. Even if I got away, where would I go? Deciding it’s best to keep an armed man happy, I start after Ike.

  “So, what exactly does a Troublemaker tutor do?” I ask when I reach him, hoping to keep things light. He’s assembling his arsenal five feet from an innocent mannequin in a long purple dress.

  “What any tutor does. Helps you get better at something.”

  “And you’re going to help me get better at archery?”

  “Among other things, yes.”

  “But I’ve never shot an arrow before. How do you know I need help?”

  I’m genuinely curious about why I’m being tutored in something I’ve never even tried, but Ike stops polishing his bow and looks at me like I’m being a smart aleck. Which, believe me, I’m not.

  “Good question,” he says. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

  He reaches into the duffel bag on the ground and pulls out a red plastic bow and an arrow with a suction-cup tip. They remind me of toys a five-year-old would play with in a game of cowboys and Indians. I must look confused, because Ike explains.

  “Every student has to start somewhere. As you get better, so will your weapons.”

  I don’t want to get better. I don’t even want to start. But my tutor’s silver arrows still hang from his belt loop, and they look even sharper up close. So I take the plastic set and try to look happy about it.

  “Right elbow back,” Ike instructs. “Left arm straight. Fingers tight. Hold it steady.”

  I do as I’m told. The hardest part’s holding steady, as my entire body’s shaking.

  “Just aim for the mannequin,” Ike says. “Don’t worry about the apples.”

  Easier said than done. But I close my eyes and release the arrow. There’s a soft thump as contact’s made.

  “Not bad,” Ike says.

  I open my eyes. The arrow’s suction-cup tip has stuck to the toe of the mannequin’s shiny black shoe.

  “Not great, either . . . but we can work with it.”

  For the next hour, I listen to Ike and make my way down the long line of targets. I hit each one but only where life-threatening damage wouldn’t be done if the suction cup were replaced with a metal tip—like fingers and toes, shoulders and shins. If Ike’s disappointed by my amateur aim, he doesn’t let on. He’s surprisingly patient and encouraging. The experience might even be fun if this were simply gym class at Cloudview.

  When we take a break, Ike excuses himself to answer some K-Mail, and I find a rock several yards away from the firing range. I sit, take my K-Pak from my backpack, and load my own messages. I’m about to open one from Houdini about next week’s math assignment when a bang sounds somewhere behind me. It’s so loud birds scatter from the treetops.

  Without thinking, I drop the K-Pak and snatch the plastic bow and arrow from the holster slung across my back. I load the arrow as I spin toward the noise.

  And then I fire.

  “Awesome!” Ike yells.

  I lower the bow and squint. He’s standing near the golf cart and wearing what looks like a black shield over his torso. He turns to the side so I can see the arrow stuck to the middle of his chest.

  “The second I set off that firecracker, you totally went into auto archer mode! I knew you had it in you!”

  The arrow’s still stuck to his chest as he starts jogging. He waves for me to meet him halfway, so I force my feet to move. When we reach Mannequin Row, he opens his mouth to say something else just as I open mine to apologize.

  But we’re both interrupted by another sound. This one’s a rumble that starts soft and quickly grows louder. Before I can ask what it is, a motorized two-person bicycle shoots out from the woods and skids to a stop next to the golf cart. Two men in khaki pants, red-checkered shirts, and red fanny packs dismount and stride toward us.

  Ike turns toward me so his back’s to them. He plucks the arrow from his chest and shoves it into my hand, then unzips and rezips his jacket so the plastic shield is hidden inside.

  “Be cool,” he whispers. “Just practice.”

  Like not worrying about the apples, this is a tall order. But I do my best to point and shoot at the mannequins while he waves to the approaching men.

  “Good morning!” he calls out.

  “It is a good morning, isn’t it?” one of the men says pleasantly when they reach us.

  “Especially for getting into trouble,” the second man says.

  “Is it?” Ike asks. “I just meant weather-wise. No one’s getting into trouble here.”

  “No?” the first man says.

  “Nope. Seamus and I were just having our first tutoring session.” When Ike speaks again, his voice is quieter. “Between you and me, the kid needs all the help he can get.”

  Guessing this is some sort of cue, I load an arrow and shift my aim. The arrow releases and lands with a plop by my feet.

  “So it seems,” the second man says.

  “By the way,” Ike says, “sweet ride. Is it new?”

  This distracts the men instantly, and Ike walks with them back to their bicycle. As they talk, I continue shooting, careful to avoid any direct contact with the mannequins. By the time Ike returns, the ground’s covered in red plastic arrows.

  “They’re like German shepherd puppies,” he says with a sigh.

  I glance over my shoulder. The men and bicycle are gone. “Who were they?”

  “The Good Samaritans. Kilter’s version of security.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Stop Troublemakers and report bad behavior as necessary.” Ike leans down and scoops up a handful of arrows. “They’re pretty good when they’re paying attention. But like baby guard dogs, it doesn’t take much to make them lose focus.”

  I don’t get it. “But aren’t we supposed to make trouble? Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  “It is.”

  “Then why do they want to stop us?”

  “To keep us sharp.” Ike stands, then hands me a cluster of arrows. “If you can avoid Good Samaritans at Kilter, you can avoid parents and other adults in the real world. It’s another form of training—and a costly one at that. If you’re caught, you lose troublemaking privileges—and the opportunity to earn demerits and credits—for a specified amount of time. Some Troublemakers never bounce back.”

  “Why’d they come here?” I ask. The targets are strange, but I’m still shooting toy weapons. This seems more like playtime than it does serious troublemaking.

  “To check you out,” Ike says with a grin. “Because unlike what I told them, you, my friend, are off to a great start.”

  He says this like it’s good news. Like it’s something I should be happy about—even proud of.

 
; But as I reload a plastic arrow, all I can think is that if its tip was metal instead of rubber, I’d have just become a murderer for the second time.

  Chapter 10

  DEMERITS: 110

  GOLD STARS: 45

  We train until the sun begins to set. Ike’s so happy with my progress he awards me ten demerits and tells me to treat myself to something nice at the Kommissary. Instead I treat myself to some alone time in my room. Lemon’s still out with his tutor when I get back, and I take advantage of the time alone to use the phone.

  “Hoodlum Hotline, how may I direct your call?”

  “I’d like to be connected to the main operator,” I say. “Please.”

  “You’re talking to her.”

  “No, not the main operator of Hoodlum Hotline, the main operator of—” I stop when the bedroom door opens. Lemon comes into the room, drops his backpack to the floor, and falls on the bed face-first. I’m not sure he even knows I’m there, but I cover the mouthpiece with my hand anyway and whisper, “I’ll take this outside.”

  “Son, is there a problem?”

  A group of older Troublemakers are having a rowdy spitball-shooting contest in the hallway. Not wanting to be overheard—or shot—I hurry to the exit and enter the main courtyard.

  “I’d like to call my parents, please. Eliot and Judith Hinkle.” I carefully recite the number.

  “That’s a lovely thought. I’m sure they’d be touched.”

  This is followed by a long pause. I wait for ringing and prepare what I’ll say once Mom or Dad picks up.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Mom?”

  “Are you a hairless, three-legged Chihuahua named Rodolfo?”

  “What? No.”

  “Then I’m not your mother.”

  The operator. She’s still on the line. “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t dialed yet.”

  “No problem. And I won’t. Dial, that is.”

  “But this is the only phone in our room. It has only one button. How do I call them?”